What We Choose To See
by jenron12
Summary: "One wore the literal battle scars while the other internalized her wounds, but they both bled. They both felt. They both loved, just the same." This is a one-shot set during season 2, and it examines Cal and Gillian's relationship through two different pairs of eyes.


**A/N**: This is set in season 2. It happens during the Christmas party, but it isn't holiday themed in any way. I may have taken a few creative liberties with the timeline, here, but please don't yell at me too loudly, okay? :) This one is a bit of a departure for me, since I tend to write strictly from Cal or Gillian's POV. As always, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

(Standard disclaimer applies. I don't own any of these characters. But if someone could please find a way for me to borrow Cal / Tim, I would be forever grateful.)

* * *

His empty glass hit the bar top with a startling thud. _Four_ fingers of whiskey… _three_ pulls… _two_ minutes of awkward tension… _one_ conversation she didn't want to have. They sat shoulder to shoulder, and she eyed him in profile as he studied his white-knuckled fist and weighed options that he didn't really own. He was quiet. Too quiet. Which was probably a bad thing, because the last time they'd ended up like this – dressed to the nines, with nothing but silence and liquor between them – they'd wound up naked and breathless, writhing against each other _again_ and _again_ and _again_, until all that remained was confusion and awkward regret.

Her dress on his bedroom floor… his sweat on her thighs. The sex had been pretty fantastic, but still – she didn't want to open that door again unless it involved sobriety and a much better set of circumstances. One in which they _didn't_ spend five, six, sometimes seven days a week chasing liars and looking for praise. One in which the emotions they saw were as honest and real as the science itself, and not – as they'd learned from Lightman and Foster – hidden away behind a line no one else was meant to understand.

Ria fingered the rim of her barely-touched glass and tried to ignore the scowl Loker wasn't able to suppress. Jealousy. That was the emotion of the hour, apparently, and he wore it in irrational _spades_. Which was pointless, because he'd known the truth just as long as she had. Expecting to see anything else just because he wanted to was stupid.

The science didn't work that way.

Cal Lightman and Gillian Foster were complex. Multifaceted. They were together, yet not. Two halves of the same whole that seemed stubbornly determined to remain separate, despite the fact that they were both completely available. There were no spouses (_ex or otherwise_) and no threats – the coast was clear. Finally. And surely it was only a matter of time before their tried and true "we're business partners" became something… _else_. Something better.

Foster loved Lightman, and Lightman loved Foster, and anyone could see that particular truth with perfect clarity. _Why else_ would she still be there, day in and day out, fighting for the Group harder than she'd probably fought for her own marriage, and occasionally matching his outbursts of impetuous "crazy" with a few of her own? And on the flip side of that particular coin… _why else_ would **he** have willingly sacrificed himself to Matheson's gun, rather than risk the man turning it on her?

To hear Reynolds tell it, Lightman had practically thrown himself out of a moving car to save her – and there had been nothing about their interactions that night that stuck strictly to the bounds of "friendship." Foster's husband hadn't even shown up at that hospital to help her, but Lightman had. He worried himself sick… threatened the nurses with all sorts of misdemeanors if they tried to make him leave her room… and wore his guilt like a suffocating shroud.

She'd almost lost him to a bullet, and he'd almost lost her to a copycat rapist. Different circumstances, but identical pain.

_Funny_. One wore the literal battle scars while the other internalized her wounds, but they both bled. They both _felt_. They both _**loved**_, just the same. Call her a romantic – hell, maybe she _was_ – but deep inside, Ria liked to believe that those two weren't blind _to_ what everyone else saw… but instead, blinded _**by**_ it.

There was a difference.

She caught sight of Eli's scowl again – watched as it shaped his entire demeanor and left her wondering just what exactly had made him angrier: the way that Lightman's impetuosity had been hurting Foster as of late, or the way that Foster always pretended she was fine. "_Lies are often safer than the truth they hide, Torres_," she'd once been told, months ago. Amazing how clear that advice suddenly seemed.

Watching them from a distance – protected by shadows and buffered by crowds – she could easily see the spark that they all-too often tried to mask. The smiles… the stares… the way Lightman's palm positively _owned_ the curve of Foster's spine, in much the same way that hers claimed the place above his heart. They weren't fooling anyone but themselves.

"She looks happy tonight, don't you think?"

The phrase had popped into her head and out of her mouth much quicker than she'd expected, and when they did… Ria winced. _Happy_. Yeah, that word didn't do it justice at all. Foster had spent most of the evening smiling so widely that her cheeks probably ached, and all she'd gotten to show for it – all she'd gotten **to do** about it – was hug the man. Twice. In front of an audience. Which probably wasn't her ideal way of reminding herself that _**yes**_, Lightman truly was _safe_ and _alive_ and _real_ and _with her_ once again. That he'd found his way home. **To her**.

Happy.

No, that word was much too small to properly describe it.

Three beats later, Loker sighed. Loudly. As though she'd just tried to convince him that the sky was brown, or the grass was purple, or that a wild flock of hippopotamuses had been spotted flying over the Capitol. He looked completely skeptical.

"_I_, for one, will never understand those two," he said haughtily – thereby implying that anyone who _did_ understand them must've been mentally unstable. Then he laughed under his breath, shaking his head in small, judgmental ways as he watched them embrace. She'd never seen him look so cynical before.

Or so thirsty.

He grabbed the whiskey bottle and poured himself a few liberally sized fingers, taking one long pull before smacking the glass down again, with an unexpected slam. The sound was startling, but Ria kept her game face intact. She knew all too well that coddling him would only make things worse. She and Eli still had that much in common, at least – an inherent distaste for 'kid glove' handling, borne from spending far too many years having their decisions second-guessed.

"Most people don't even try," she said carefully, taking small sips of her champagne while her words dissipated in the silent space between them. "But then again… most people can't _see_ what we see, either."

He nodded in agreement before taking another pull from his glass. This time, he stopped short of slamming it on the table.

"You're a girl. Right Torres? Which pretty much makes you the expert on this whole… (_insert ridiculous, erratic hand-waving __**here**__, as he searched for the right description_)… thing. So you tell me: what would a woman like Gillian Foster ever see in a man like him?"

Scorn. Contempt. Anger. Eli's emotions were coming so quickly that she barely had time to catalogue one before another took its place, and his state of sobriety wasn't helping anything. She'd always known Loker to be a happy drunk, but his was a side of him that she hadn't expected – and definitely one she never wanted to see again, lest he do something insane like get himself fired, or commit a minor felony before she'd gotten the chance to drag him to her car.

Wrong time, wrong place… wrong conversation _entirely_. It was supposed to be a party, right? Giant tree, twinkling lights, low-cut dresses. He should be smiling, dammit – not behaving like a petulant child. What right did Eli Loker have to care about how Foster and Lightman spent their "off" time? So long as the paychecks didn't bounce and the cases were legal, a romantic relationship – or total lack thereof – wasn't anyone else's business.

Anger quickly morphed into arrogance, and Eli stifled another laugh. "Those two remind me of that Disney cartoon – what's it called?" he mumbled. "The one with the beautiful girl, and that awful _beast_ of a guy who pushes her away because he thinks he doesn't deserve her?"

Now there was a mental image she hadn't expected. Comparing anything about Cal Lightman to a character from an animated film felt about as normal as trying to teach a cat how to cook pancakes, but Ria had to admit… '_Beauty and the Beast' _wasn't too far off the mark. Whiskey consumption bred insight, apparently.

"If that was us?" he continued, not pausing long enough for her to react, or disagree, or get a single word in edgewise. "If that was _**us**_, and I ever treated you the way Lightman treats her? Safe to say that you'd either cut off my left testicle with a pair of cuticle scissors, or stab me in the eye with one of your heels. Either way, there'd be _pain_, Ria. Lots and lots of physical pain. But with these two? Nothing. He dishes it out, and she takes it. End of story."

Except that it wasn't.

It wasn't even close, actually.

In fact, anyone who thought that the "story" of Cal Lightman and Gillian Foster could be summed up in a few sentences and then tied with a lopsided, dysfunctional, narcissistic _bow_ was an idiot. A _big_ one.

"You're drunk, Eli," Ria said bluntly. "And I'd rather not have this conversation _at all_, alright? Their relationship is none of our business. Just let it go."

Her tone was a warning, but she kept her voice low, hopeful that no one else had heard her. She was cautious; well aware of their surroundings and also well aware that no matter how distracted Lightman might _seem_, he – or one of his damn cameras – was probably watching. And she definitely didn't want to have this particular conversation analyzed, nitpicked, or otherwise dissected at a later date.

Loker, though, seemed unfazed by what she'd said. He shrugged his shoulders, blew a half-hearted raspberry at her, and then rolled his eyes. _Twice_. "Much as I appreciate the advice…" he started, his voice laced with sarcasm and thick with an undercurrent of stubborn pride. "I don't remember seeing _your_ name on any of the walls around here. Which means you aren't in any position to tell me what to do. And _**I**_… am not drunk."

Oh, he was such a liar. Trust her, he'd over-emphasized that last word so pathetically, that she half expected him to start laughing before it completely left its lips. Because it was _ridiculous_, you know? His better judgment was floating face down in the final two fingers of his drink, with all hope of its resuscitation long gone… and he wasn't fooling anyone but himself.

(And even that much was a stretch.)

Whatever the kindest word for "idiot" was, she needed to find it quickly. To either say something that would shake some sense into him, or to walk away completely before she was deemed crazy by association. But before she got the chance to say anything – helpful or otherwise – his emotions shifted again. They reverted from stubborn pride back to full-blown annoyance in the span of five seconds. Then he scrunched up _his_ face and waggled one pointed finger at _hers_, defiantly.

"I am not _drunk_, Ria," he repeated, as if insistence alone would magically make him sober. Or at least more believable. And when neither of those things happened, he squared his shoulders, looked her straight in the eye… and rebuffed the counter-argument he hadn't even allowed her to _make_ yet.

Whiskey consumption also bred tenacity, apparently.

"_**I'm**_ not drunk (… yes, that was the third time he'd mentioned it…) and _of course_ it's our business. The two of them have made it our business. Lightman taught us the science, didn't he? So he doesn't have a right to blame us for using it."

Ria sighed. One drunken, radically honest Eli Loker was enough to try anyone's patience. Add in the fact that he was behaving like a flippant adolescent with a junior high crush, and it was all she could do to keep the giggles in check. So she took a deep, cleansing breath and dove into the conversation with both feet. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"It's _Lightman_," she countered. "Since when does he need anyone's permission to do _anything_? Especially when it involves his science. Or Foster. Or life, in general."

And for whatever reason, **that** made him pause. Not _stop_ entirely – but pause. Still, though, stubbornness reigned supreme. "Which just proves my point even further," he argued. "The guy is arrogant. He's rude. And half the time, he treats her like crap. Then the _other_ half, he's off chasing something with a short skirt and a tight…"

Oh, _no_. She was _not_ going "**there**." In fact, she wasn't even going to _touch_ "**there**" with a ten foot pole. And neither should Eli.

"Jealous, much?" Ria interrupted. Because _really_, could he get any more obvious?

Another long pull from his glass brought both a grimace and a flicker of satisfaction to Eli's face, and she watched him fight against the burn of the liquor. "I'm not jealous, either" he insisted. "I'm not _drunk_, and I'm not _jealous_. Case closed."

The confidence she could see on his face was betrayed by the tells in his body language, and _this time_ – as his narrowed eyes burned a death stare into Lightman's back – she actually did laugh, just a little bit. "Alright, so what would you call it?" she asked, indulging him with a soft sigh as she studied his profile. Clenched fist, fidgety foot, tightened jaw… the signs were plentiful. And they all pointed to a truth he didn't want to admit.

"I'm… curious," he answered. The word rolled out of his mouth slowly, and landed between them with the weight of a dozen unspoken things. It was the veritable definition of a half-truth, and she was tempted to drag the second half out of him by force. But before she had a chance to do anything – think, breathe, stutter, giggle, groan, or even mock him – he abruptly stood and leaned around her, _over her_, in a gesture that felt a bit more intimate than it should.

"Just look at that, Ria," he muttered, lifting his hand to point out their position on the other side of the room. "**That**. _Right there_. Do you see it? Now **that**… is crazy."

There were countless ways she could've nitpicked what he'd just said – not the least of which was the fact that someone needed to teach him when to use his 'indoor voice' – but she got no farther than three words ("_Pot? Meet kettle."_) before Eli decided to… elaborate.

His right hand grabbed her left, and he fumbled both of their bodies few steps closer to the spot where Foster and Lightman stood together, oblivious to anyone's scrutiny and sharing a loose embrace as they swayed to silent music. "Look at the way Foster is touching him – the way she's _smiling_ at him," Loker continued, as he once again allowed jealousy, anger, and a tangle of other emotions to weave between his words.

Part of her wanted to stop him; to shake him by the shoulders until sobriety kicked in and he understood, _finally_, that he was completely out of line. But the other part – the one playing Devil's Advocate, rather than decent friend – opted to let him keep talking, until his own verbal tirade brought everything full circle to the truth.

(It didn't take long.)

Whatever silent music Foster and Lightman had been hearing must've changed, then, because simultaneously… she moved one hand to cover his heart as he tightened his grip on her hips and they both smiled even wider, no doubt lost in the moment. Ria thought it was sweet. But Eli? _He_ seemed disgusted.

"That man acts always acts so goddamned superior, you know? Like everything else is invisible. All of _us_? The ones who bust our asses to make sure his science gets used in the best possible way? He doesn't even see it. Instead, he comes in here and gives Emily some pathetic apology… then he hugs you, and he hugs Foster, and he gives me that stupid paper snowflake – _which_, for the record, was just plain weird – and now… _**what**_? Are we just supposed to _forget_ a year's worth of bullshit because of a fancy tree and a date on the calendar? I mean… is that what he _expects_? And if so, is that what he thinks Foster will do, too? It's crazy. _He's_ crazy. And I don't understand why that woman puts up with him."

…and there it was. Full circle. Because the answer to Eli's question was – quite literally – right in front of his face. Seems he'd just chosen not to see it.

Ria sighed and shook her head at him – half amused, and half bewildered that he actually wanted her to explain it. Aloud. In detail. Because for the most part, it was the _simplest_ truth she'd ever seen. "Three words, Loker," she answered, looking pointedly in Foster's direction as she nudged him in the ribs. "She loves him."

And just like that, the tension was broken. Whatever internal 'fight' he'd been facing… whatever had triggered the denial, and jealousy, and anger she'd seen so prevalently… it all just faded away in a matter of moments, leaving him with nothing but (_mostly_) calm acceptance, and a single eyebrow quirked in surprise.

"Yeah?" he said simply. Just one word.

"_Yeah_."

Loker nodded and sighed, stuffing both hands into his pockets as he took a sudden interest in studying the floor. Either he wasn't quite as drunk as she'd assumed he was, or the whole "Foster's in love with Lightman" revelation had taken all the wind out of his proverbial sales in under three minutes, flat. It wasn't a subtle change at all.

"And Lightman… do you think he knows how she feels? Or is he just in denial?"

_Denial_: such a delicate and tricky beast, it was. If Ria read the situation correctly – if she saw everything for what it was, not what she _assumed_ it to be – then Cal Lightman was likely surrounded by miles of thin ice with nothing but that stubborn denial to use as a life raft, should it start to crack beneath his feet.

(A really shitty life raft, at that. One that was full of holes, and about as dependable as a leaky canoe.)

In other words, he probably knew _exactly_ how Gillian felt. But for whatever reason… he was just biding his time. Choosing not to "see" it quite yet, lest his reckless pursuit of everything else in his life wind up tarnishing Foster's in the process.

Explaining that theory to Loker, though, seemed tricky at best. So she smiled… nudged him in the ribs with her elbow, as she nodded in Lightman's direction, and finally said…

"He doesn't have a _clue_."

* * *

FIN


End file.
